i am destruction in its own form.

i am a gas leak
you have never encountered before.

i don't tick like the bomb you're used to.

i have dangerous hands,
they've killed thousands of me.

i am a serial killer of self.

The dogs are running

to the northern lights, watch out!


Don't eat yellow snow!

boom.


that's it.
that's the poem.

Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?

****.

Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.

(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.

In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.

But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?

Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.

No,
none of that.

It's not a thing,
but a feeling.

Fear
Fear
Fear

And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

If you love someone you suffer in silence

Want someone you care for to live free of the pain that is harming you

Close in walls to keep them safe from your fires

Life is then never given the chance to twist them the way it twisted you

Let that person stay out of danger's way
They are better off lightyears away

I feel like I'm seeing everything
Through foggy windows.
The details they blur
And I can't tell who's friend or foe.
If there's danger
I can't see it.
I'm blind to the reality
That I know haunts me silently.